


Stay With Me (Don't Let Me Go)

by mandywritesfiction



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Parents Claire Dearing & Owen Grady
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandywritesfiction/pseuds/mandywritesfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death never announces itself. It's the cloudy evil that perches itself in the lives of those who are least expecting nor accepting it. Claire and Owen are shaken to their core when death presents itself in their lives, and challenges their marriage. But, as long as they remember why they committed themselves to each other, they'll make it through to the other side. Or, will only one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m back, and still clearly alive, but I have so much love for my Clawen babes who never gave up on me. So, that shoutout will come at the end. But, if I said this started out as the next chapter of Faking It, would you believe me? Chances are no. Yet, it’s true. For now, this is going to stand outside of Faking It, simply because I’ve revised the entire piece and... I’m not ready to touch FI again. Not yet. Without further waiting, here ya go.
> 
> Next update: before March 11th

* * *

 

Life wasn't meant to be so bittersweet; there were trials and tribulations that everyone had met at one time or another, something that had rocked them to their very core. An event in life that would make one person question the very reasons of fighting; it was meant to be lived vivaciously right until the end, until the very last days, until the moment where a single human exhaled for the very last time. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

 _I can do this._  

Those same thoughts were ones that Owen held with him as he drummed his hand again the armrest, staring straight ahead at the TV, only pulling his gaze away from the seat in front of him to glance over at Claire for a millisecond to ensure himself that she was still with him. It wasn't like he was paying any attention to  _Wheel of Fortune_ , nor had he noticed that Claire hadn't made a peep since they'd settled in the living room. After all, they'd barely held a conversation since the night before. They'd cleaned up the kitchen in silence, washed the dishes with words lingering between them, and after all was said and done, he went off to bed without her. 

And now? The forecast remained bleak for conversation. 

Claire couldn't hold it against him, either. She couldn't blame him for the lack of conversing, or the pain that she held so deeply in the depths of her heart for how he had pushed her hands away the night before when she tried to wrap her comforting embrace around him in bed. The pang struck through her heart, and on any other given night she would have sat up,  _stood_ up, and walked out of the bedroom, but she couldn't bring herself to leave him alone. To part from him when there was an empty, hollow hole carved into the chambers of his heart, casting a dim shadow on his soul, would be a fatal diagnosis. 

Instead, she clung to him, resting her hand on his knee in the most subtle of ways; not only did it remind him to keep himself tethered to the world, a world that needed him to continue breathing, but that  _she_ needed him, too. 

* * *

 

"I don't know what to do, Karen, and I don't know  _how_ to help. Isn't that pathetic? I don't know what to do for my own husband." Claire clutched the phone between her shoulder and ear as she curled up at the end of the couch --  _his_ end -- and lifted the glass of wine to her lips to take a hearty sip before grabbing a hold of her phone once more. For the past week, since they'd been home and he heard the news of his mother's diagnosis, Owen had silently pulled himself off the couch around eight o'clock each night and, without a word, wandered off towards their bedroom, leaving Claire on her own. 

The first night, it wasn't until she noticed that he hadn't returned an hour later that Claire shuffled to their bedroom, and just as she hard started to speak, peered into the darkness to see him asleep on their bed. Or, rather  _heard_ him snoring. 

"Maybe there really isn't a way you're going to be able to help him, Claire. He has to come to you first, that's a stage of grief. You can't force it from him." 

While Claire knew her sister was right, there wasn't any easier way to watch him suffer in solitude. His world was ripping at the seams and, while she  _wanted_ to help, there wasn't anything she could think to say or do. She'd been so young when her parents died that it hadn't been until well into her adult life that she finally accepted the impact the loss had on her. For some reason, telling her husband that she was  _sorry_ didn't seem to be the right move and, if Claire  _asked_ what she could do, she had an odd feeling she wouldn't like the answer. 

"Go get into bed, and call me in the morning when you're up and moving, okay?" Once she coaxed Claire into agreeing, Karen yelled out a quick  _'wait!'_ before her sister was able to hang up. "Don't forget that Ryan and I are here, too, so if you need anything..." 

Claire bit into her bottom lip, wishing that her sister, someone who she had thought of as her own mother for  _years_ , could be with her. "I love you, Karen, even when you're treating me like a  _daughter._ "

"To the moon and back, Claire Bear. Goodnight." 

* * *

 

_I need to find the courage to ask her, she's my damn wife, for fuck's sake._

It was the internal struggle of a lifetime. He was supposed to be the strength of their marriage, of their home. He'd witnessed the longing looks Claire shot at him during the day as they shuffled around the park. He knew she'd asked Barry to watch out for him when she couldn't be around to do it. After all, the annoying reality of the truth was she had work to do, too. 

Yet, no matter what he did, Owen couldn't get the words out of his mind. 

_She has a brain tumor._

_And it's malignant._

_Owen, your mother... your mother has brain cancer._

It was a disastrous day. Claire and him had flown back to the states to surprise his parents and siblings for Thanksgiving and, when all was said and done, they were the ones being surprised. Was it petty to be upset that he was the  _last_ to be told? Practically the rest of the world knew but he was the last to find out. 

"How did you cope with, uh, with your parents dying?" 

His dark, troubling voice seeped into every crevice of her mind, reminding Claire that it wasn't her husband standing before her and, for a moment, Claire thought she was imagining actual conversations as figments of her imagination. She could have sworn, and would have betted the world's money, that she would be the last person her husband would seek for the first conversation about his mom's diagnosis. Barry, in her mind, would've been first. 

 _"Claire?"_  

Quickly, she turned her attention towards Owen, a surprised element taking over her features. He was choosing  _breakfast time_ , when they were making their coffee to their own liking, to strike up a conversation as dark as his mother's impending death? 

It may have seemed crude, but even Owen had used the words in passing while talking to his dad over the phone. She was given two months to live and, while her husband had sworn off the idea at first, it suddenly seemed like he was opening to the idea of talking about his mother passing way far before Claire actually had. 

How exactly did he think she was supposed to explain the process? That, the next time they flew to the states, she wouldn't be the same woman they'd left? She would most likely have lost weight, and color in her features. Her gait may be unsteady and her thoughts, along with speech, would be affected due to the growing tumor. There might come a time where she might not recognize her family; her husband. 

"Your mom's death, it's... it's different than when my parents died." 

She had to make that distinction. Claire didn't  _have_ time to say goodbye. She didn't have a second chance to apologize for the times she'd done something to upset her mother, or when she had broken her father's rules. 

She could still hear the tires squealing moments before the truck flipped. 

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, Claire could see the crimson graffiti plastered to the windshield, and her mother's body lodged through the glass. 

She remembered clawing at the seatbelt that restrained her against the seat, screaming for her visible mother, and missing father. Only to later find out that her father had been ejected from the car after his seatbelt broke. 

_"Claire."_

It only took saying her name once without response until Owen was closing the space between them, circling his arms around Claire, and pulling her tightly against his chest. He'd spent so much time focusing on his own needs and devastation that he had failed to realize how it was effecting Claire. His parents had taken a quick liking to Claire, especially when they met for the first time two years prior, and when they found out the two would be married, it was needless to say they were infatuated with the idea of accepting Claire into their family. Not that it took  _marriage_ to do so. And now, while he'd been wallowing in his own misery, he hadn't taken a moment to notice that Claire was also going through a series of her own emotions. 

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, pressing her lips to his neck, the closest place she could find to his heart. "I'm so sorry for not knowing the right words to say. I can't take this pain away from you and I wish, more than anything, that I could." 

For the first time in weeks, Owen couldn't hear his distracting thoughts, as they were being drown out by the breathtaking sounds of her heart. He didn't have to agonize over how he was going to explain himself; not now, at least. Owen knew he didn't need to worry about Claire being upset that he hadn't spoken to her for more than a moment at a time for weeks. It was a silent pact they made in their wedding vows, concreted by  _"for better, for worse."_

Wordlessly, Owen hooked his hands around her upper thighs and lifted Claire, smiling to himself when she wrapped both arms around his neck, and began carrying her back to their bedroom. It didn't matter that they both needed to be to work in less than an hour, and, although he wasn't sure his raptors would understand why he wasn't there for feeding as well as Barry would, he knew his best friend would fill in for  _one_ day. The mountain of paperwork that had  _almost_ turned into an avalanche -- twice -- was starting to worry Masrani, and the next time he had to warn Claire about it, he surely wouldn't be as kind. 

"Stop apologizing," he whispered, trailing his lips along the shell of her ear. There was zero reason to pin her against the wall so, while he was tempted, Owen continued to their bed and slowly lowered his wife to the mattress, hovering over her for a moment after. "There's no reason that you should be apologizing, and I don't want to talk, not after the look on your face." Gently, he reached out to cup her jaw, rubbing his thumb back and forth along her bottom lip. 

Finally, before Owen could filter his thoughts, he was barely muttered the words. And, once the dam was broken, he couldn't stop the thoughts from gathering, waiting to be unleashed. "I wish you could take this pain away; just make it disappear for a day, an hour, a  _minute._ " Was this what it felt like to be lost in a world that was drug-induced? Was  _this_ what his mother felt as her body began to accept its fate and let the pain relievers sink beneath her skin? Was it also what his father wished he could succumb to, if only to avoid the pain of losing his beloved wife? 

He was brought back to her when Claire's touch sparked against his cheek, the imprint of her fingers pressing against his chest felt like fire burning his skin. "Owen, where'd you go?" 

It was the blank stare that told her it was anywhere but with her. Although, could she blame him? Could she honestly say he didn't have the right to escape to an alternate universe where he wasn't losing his mother? 

Silently, Claire pushed herself further onto the mattress and shifted onto her side before she pulled him closer, creating a space pressed between their pillows and her body that he could lay. "We don't have to take, just stay with me." 

A few minutes passed -- or maybe it was an hour -- before their tears subsided enough to rest calmly. With his face pressed into the crook of her neck and dried tears lead a path to where his hand gripped her shirt, the silence had finally evened out for Claire to hear him whisper, ever so quietly. 

"Don't let me go, Claire. Please, don't let me go." 

* * *

 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, loves! Well, here it is, the second part of this rollercoaster. As much as I so wanted to dive into more with this part, I really wanted to keep it the length I had imagined and work on really describing the ups-and-downs of their feelings and how they both were coping with the loss of Momma Grady. Without further ado, here it is. 
> 
> Also, you can expect the epilogue (yes, there's going to be an epilogue, and a very exciting one at that) to be published before March 18.

What happens when the soul is ripped from the heart without as much as a simple goodbye? Where does the pain begin? Is it the initial disturbance that creates the beginning of the avalanche, or is it in the days after, when it’s suddenly realized the soul will never return? Sometimes, the question is never answered.

Nor did Owen have a single clue of where to begin looking. 

It had been barely three weeks since they’d returned back to Isla Nublar after the news of his mother’s cancer. For three weeks, Owen had been waiting with bated breath for some indication that his mother’s prognosis had suddenly worsened and, if he knew his family, he’d be the last one to find out... _again_. Yet, for whatever reason, it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was to be kept in the loop; and his family failed to realize that his mother had been calling him, too. 

Until she stopped. First, it had only been a day that passed since he’d spoken to her, and Owen wasn’t going to panic when there were endless reasons for her disappearance. Then, one day painstakingly turned into three and, despite his wife's best efforts to calm him, Owen was set on a tirade when his father called.

“What the hell, Dad? Three days go by and no -- _what_?” Owen quieted within seconds, stumbling backwards into the counter before he doubled over, dropping his phone to the floor. 

It couldn’t be happening. Not this soon. 

In the distance, Owen could hear Claire shriek as he stumbled away from the kitchen and to the hallway, pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself. As much as he wanted to run back to his wife and wrap himself in her embrace, he was more concerned about his legs giving out. 

“Robert?” Claire reached for the phone just as she witnessed Owen scramble to escape from the kitchen as dry heaves tore through his body. _Pay attention, Claire. Figure out what happened_. “Robert, what is it? What happened?” 

They knew it was only a matter of time until the moment would strike, but it didn’t make the pain any worse. Her father-in-law’s heart-wrenching sobs cut through her core and sliced through her ability to speak, leaving her gasping for words to say to comfort him. At last, when Robert asked her to simply take care of Owen, she obliged in a heartbeat and hung up with the determination to find her husband. 

What she hadn’t expected was to find him curled on their bed with his face hid in the swamp of pillows they’d collected at the headboard. Claire froze mid-step and cautiously crossed both arms across her chest, uncrossed both arms, and finally, with much hesitation, stepped forward and slid onto the edge of the bed. 

_Do I reach out and touch him? Or do I sit here until he notices and comes to me?_

While she had learned over the short course of their marriage that, yes, she had to slightly change her ways of avoidance when it came to Owen, she hadn’t exactly wanted to push those boundaries. Especially now. 

_For fuck’s sake, he’s your husband, and he needs you._

Right. 

Yet, it wasn’t until she heard his dark, raspy voice reaching for her. “Don’t go anywhere, I need you here. Stay with me, Claire.” 

That was all it took. Claire moved to his side before wrapping her arm around his waist, using the slight leverage to pull him closer, even if it wasn’t the easiest. His two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle easily beat her meek one-hundred and sixty. But, with determination, Claire cradled him against her chest until they were laying together without as much as a millimeter of wasted space between them. 

“I know,” she breathed, kissing the crown of his head. Claire wanted to believe that she could reason with his pain and that she could show sympathy towards her husband. Did he feel that she was only trying to pacify him? Surely he knew she was trying. 

Soon enough, his tears had soaked through her shirt, enough to shiver as the chilly air passed through the open window. Without any notice, Claire gently pushed at his shoulders until Owen was moving on his own, sitting up only to stare at her. 

Maybe, in the moment, it was the shared silence that spoke a thousand words, or maybe it was the soft tear-filled glance he passed her way, but it didn't take more than a second for Claire to push onto her knees while reaching for his shirt. One by one, she threaded the buttons through their matching slits until his shirt was hanging open, exposing his defined muscles. Claire dragged her gaze down his chest, watching as his muscles rippled with ease, or anticipation. 

“ _Sympathy sex is never the way to go_ ,” Claire could hear Zara whispering. But tonight? Tonight, it was. 

Their movements were enough words exchanged. The way he reached for her waist spoke the infinite reasons of why he loved her, just in the same way that Claire smoothed her lips over the nape of his neck, sighing into his skin how desperately sorry she was for the loss of his mom.

Their hands synchronized with each other, tugging at the material that disguised their bodies until it was shed into small piles on the dark-stained, oak floor. Owen didn’t bother wasting time in getting Claire beneath him, guiding his hands along her curves as he had memorized them a thousand times before, reaching to pin one arm to the bed as his other hand skimmed her inner thighs, teasing closer before pulling back. 

There wasn’t a single thing Claire wouldn’t do for him... especially now that he was hurting, even though she wasn’t sure if having sex was the best thing. What was running through his mind? Was he even thinking straight? Why did she care? They were married, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t a fucking one-night stand. 

“What do you want from me?” Owen hissed as his lips scoured across her jaw, silent promises strung between the points he nipped at.  

“What do I  _want_  from you? What kind of question is that?” Her hooded eyes gave away the truth behind her words; of course she fucking wanted  _him,_  but what did  _he_  want? 

Well, it was clear what he wanted. Still, Claire couldn’t bring herself to let him. How did she know he wasn’t just using this as a way to avoid the truth lingering?

But, if he  _needed_  her, it was her job as his wife to help him. So what if the way she’d come to realizing they both needed sex was obscured and the slightest bit deranged. Slowly, she reached out for him, wrapping her small grip around his dick as a smirk began to form on her lips. “Are you starting to understand what I  _want_?” 

She knew it was wrong, but the wasn’t exactly the point. He just wanted to feel close to her.  _And to get off_. Which she couldn’t exactly blame him for. It’d been a stressful three weeks and, even though she wanted to deny it, they hadn’t been having sex nearly as much as they would’ve had  _this_  hadn’t happened.

Without hesitation, Claire continued to stroke him, working to a considerable pace as she watched him struggle to hold back, thrusting into her hand. Was it terrible that she enjoyed teasing him to the point where he was biting into his bottom lip just to remain calm enough to not let go early? 

It’d be so easy for him to kick the pace into overdrive, fuck into her hand until he was able to come, and be done. And he wanted to, he wanted to get off, but he also wanted  _more_. He wanted to feel her around him; wanted to throw himself into something that felt  _pleasurable,_ instead of killing himself with the endless thoughts. 

Clearly, his mind was betraying him.

“I want to fuck you until I can’t think straight, Claire.” His eyes darkened and his pupils dilated, and before long his voice was deepening into a throaty growl. His wife was set and determined on getting him off, but he’d rather it was  _with_  her. “Wait--” Owen groaned and reached for her waist, letting his fingers trail to brush against her clit, grinning as she lifted her hips to his touch in response. “I want to feel you,” he breathed, leaning down to kiss her roughly. 

That was all Claire needed to hear for the switch to flip. Suddenly, she went from pondering ways of trying to steer him off the fuck-trail and onto one where they could  _talk._  

_“Maybe there really isn’t a way you’re going to be able to help him, Claire. He has to come to you first, that’s a stage of grief. You can’t force it from him.”_ The reminder Karen had given her weeks prior were finally being put to use. What better way to help Owen then to let him channel his frustration into something  _useful?_

Also, it’d end as a win-win for them both. 

The tug of war her brain was playing with her heart was one of epic proportions, destroying her want to get Owen to just curl up in bed with her. But was that  _really_ what she wanted? 

Of course not. She wanted to be able to have sex with her husband for the first time in  _weeks_. 

Claire channeled the pent-up need for sex into leverage to hold over him and quickly wrapped her legs around his waist before she was able to rock to the side. Luckily, it knocked him off balance just long enough that Claire could slip from under him and was straddling him before Owen knew what had happened.

“Oh, so  _that’s_  how you want to play this game?” He spoke slowly, reaching out to trail his touch along her thigh, reaching the apex of her thighs as he slid a finger between her lips, smirking at just how soaked she appeared to be. “If you want to play tough, then put your hands behind your head and stay like that. No touching, we’ll see just how easily you think you’re going to get off when you’re on top.” 

Claire groaned at the way he spoke, so easily turned on by his slightly (read: overpowering) dominate nature, and knew that, with his hand still wedged between her legs, he had felt the reaction to his words. 

“What’re you waiting for?” He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side, growling the order, “hands behind your head.” 

Claire obliged to the stipulation for the night and raised both hands behind her head, locking her fingers together to create a tight seal. There was no way she’d let him deny her getting off because she slipped and let her hands fall. Although, Claire knew it was more for the fact that  _he_  wanted to get her off, and not let her own hands be the reason. 

Owen took the outcome into his own hands as he reached for her hips, cupping her gently before he adjusted slightly, lining himself up with her entrance before he guided her to sink down onto him without preamble. His head fell back against the headboard and his lips parted with a loud groan, unable to help himself from thrusting up to meet her. 

_This_  was how he would heal. 

Owen lost himself in Claire’s whimpers, using the noises that effortlessly slipped from her lips to guide himself in how far she was moving towards the edge. And, as promised, teased her clit mercilessly until it became a game of who could make it to orgasm the quickest. It was no longer about  _only_  getting off; it was about losing himself in her. 

What could’ve been an hour passed in the blink of an eye as he grew nearer to the edge of his orgasm, and he thrusted into her without restraint for the last time just as he shut down beneath her, loud moans drifted from him until he was satisfied with the outcome. 

Until he wasn’t. 

It was clear he hadn’t waited for his wife to come, and once he flipped into post-orgasm recover, he was off the bed in a heartbeat. But he didn't like the way he felt; the blood pulsed through his veins faster than he could get a grip on himself, and his vision clouded over. Faintly, in the distance he could hear Claire calling his name, but when he looked towards her, all he could see was the concern coating her features. 

“I’m fine,” he growled, pushing a hand through his messed hair before he took off for the bathroom. Once he could conceal himself away, he slammed the door, pushed through the lock, and leaned over the sink as he heaved. 

All the while, Claire stood on the other side, one arm wrapped over her chest as she lifted her free hand to the wooden. 

“I’ll wait for you, Owen Grady.” 

* * *

 

“I’m going to continue apologizing until I don’t feel the need to anymore, so you should just stop telling me to, well,  _stop.”_ Owen sighed and leaned his head back against the rest in the taxi.

Two layovers and a total of sixteen hours in the air later, they were finally back on solid ground and in the back of the taxi that would, eventually, take them to his parents house. 

Where he would see his family, for the first time,  _without_  his mom. 

But, it wouldn’t be directly. Since they’d flown at the most inconvenient time of the year, there just happened to be flight delays due to inclement weather, which meant they needed to head to the funeral home before ever stepping foot inside his childhood home. 

Here’s the thing about death; it is  _never_ at a convenient time for anyone, unless your heart is cold and stalled deep inside your chest. 

And yet, Owen thought  _that_ could be the one, and only, release he had from the destruction of his own heart. Luckily for him, Claire had denied him any release of his hand from her own, and continued with the soft motions of rubbing her thumb across his knuckles, like he’d done so many times for her in the past, and looked forward to it in  _their_  future. 

Just as they pulled to the curb where he’d seal away what he would seal away as the  _before --_ life  _with_ his mom -- Owen turned to Claire and gently reached out until he was cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. 

“Thank you for staying with me, Claire Grady. I love you.” 

* * *

 

_To be continued..._


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, well, well, look what I’m finally finishing. I know, I promised this at least one month ago, but I started BTL, Homefront and... I got carried away. Go ahead, blame me. Anyway, I hope this sums up the perfection that is Clawen. And, away we go. Enjoy!

**Five**   **years** **later**  

“Beatrix, sweetheart, are you getting into your pajamas?” Unable to take her eyes away from their youngest daughter, Delilah, for a split second, Claire frowned when she failed to hear their daughter respond from her bedroom down the hallway. “Bea?” Once again, without fail, she was met with complete and utter silence. 

Where was her daughter -- and husband -- when she needed them? 

Claire snapped her gaze to the bedroom door when she heard Beatrix’s distressed voice screaming from her bedroom and didn’t think twice before she grabbed Delilah and went running, skidding to a stop outside their daughter’s room. However, when she peered inside, she was less than pleased -- and certainly not surprised -- at the sight before her. Their five-year-old stood with a pout planted firmly on her lips and a hand propped on her hip with the other jutted out, pointing straight at Owen. “Momma, he won’t get out of my bag!” 

Kneeling inside of Bea’s suitcase was her husband, who had tried to disguise himself under her clothes and was  _attempting_  to keep a straight face between his daughter and wife. Instead, after a moment’s pause and the silent understanding that he would  _not_  inch a laugh out of Claire, Owen began to crawl out of the small suitcase and towards Bea, lifting her into his strong arms before tossing her towards the ceiling. “You, my little devilish child, are going to have an untimely meeting with the tickle monster!” Owen gently dropped her to the mattress before his hands met her stomach, tickling as Bea thrashed back and forth, begging, “ _Daddy, please stop_!” 

Claire merely sighed and began shuffling towards their bedroom, cringing when Delilah began to grow restless in her arms, garbling as only a six-month old would. “I know, I know, it’s almost time for bed, isn’t it?” As she turned into their bedroom and sighed at the mess that was clothes and toiletries scattered across their bed that served as a silent reminder it needed to be put away, she inhaled sharply when she felt him step up behind her. 

There was an unspoken agreement, or possibly just an understanding, of the reaction he had on his wife simply by just being in the same room. It was almost as if the atmosphere changed; she suddenly knew  _everything_  would be all right; that  _everyone_  would make it out,  _alive_ , and in one piece. “Hey, beautiful,” he gently skirted her wavy locks to one side before lowering his lips to her neck, kissing gently across to the other side before skimming just beneath her earlobe, “keeping your head on straight?” Why he asked the question when he knew she was having a hard enough time was unknown, but he gently wrapped his arms around her anyway, helping to support their daughter in her arms. 

Sometimes, Claire wished they could communicate telepathically only so neither would have to speak the words they were desperately avoiding as if letting them slip would cause the next plague to hit earth. And sometimes, an illness of sorts sounded better than dealing with  _life_  itself. “I can’t believe you’re asking  _me_ that,” she breathed and leaned back into his embrace. Delilah had calmed once Owen was near, and it added to the list of why Claire was envious of her husband. He was the epitome of perfection when it came to their girls, and the simple reason she had so much respect that he’d given up his passion for being a stay-at-home parent. Even if he rejected the phrase because, in his mind, he was getting to do what he loved. 

The silence broke off their simple conversation and engulfed them in a sea of emotions, and it wasn’t long before Owen was urging Claire forward and towards their daughter’s bassinet. Unsure of who needed more comforting, once Delilah was safe in the comfort of a soft blanket Claire turned towards her husband and silently wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him close. Their hands were the only words they needed; she softly threaded hers through his growing hair, tugging gently at the dark blonde locks that he refused to cut, and Owen took solace in tucking his hands underneath the hem of  _his_  sweater (the one she refused to hang back up on his side of the closet), and sighed at the warmth to her skin. “Why, because it’s  _my_  dad who passed away?” Owen cringed and sighed, “he was as much yours, too, Claire.” 

And it was true. Robert and Theresa had engulfed her into their family from the moment they met; they were parents she had never grown up with and, while she was worried that accepting Theresa as her mother had meant she’d replaced her own, Owen’s mother had  _always_  made it known that she knew she wasn’t a replacement, but an  _addition._  When she’d passed five years before, Claire found it hard to forgive whatever God would take away a mother as gentle and kind as his; and who would leave Robert on his own? Of course, he had Owen’s siblings, especially Tibby, his eldest sister who lived rather close. But when Owen lived what felt like halfway around the world, taking a long weekend to visit home was easier said than done. It hadn’t stopped Claire from urging him to go whenever the chance presented itself.

“It’s just  _so_  hard to imagine him not being here anymore.” The words were whispered so quietly Claire had a hard time believing he had spoken at all, sure in the assumption that he had drifted off while standing, but when he continued she knew it wasn’t the sleep deprivation morphing her mind like pliable putty. After being awake for what felt like days, not to mention keeping Beatrix contained and  _entertained_  on the flights back to the island, they were both hours overdue for sleep. Yet, sleep was the last thing on her mind when Claire felt the first tear touch her skin. 

There would never be enough words in  _any_  language to describe the irreparable damage pounded into her heart when she listened to husband cry. It started off soft like the whispering of the wind before a rainstorm, or how the world seemed so quiet in the moments before the sun rose, but there was no mistaking the echoes of his breaking heart when he hugged her so tight she could feel the unsteady beat against her cheek. 

Oblivious to the world around them and only concerned about each other for the moments they could offer, Owen rushed to pull away when their daughter announced herself at the door, but it was all too late. Wiping underneath his eyes as Beatrix closed the distance, she held her arms out to be picked up and grew frustrated when he hesitated for a moment. Once he was holding her firmly in his arms, Beatrix reached out and cupped his cheeks with both hands, slightly squeezing his face as she adjusted her hold. “Daddy? Why are you crying?”

Unwilling to give their daughter a peek into the harsh reality of life at such a young age, Owen merely pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Don’t you think you should be getting your teeth brushed and into bed, Munchkin?” As well behaved as their daughter was, Beatrix had her moments. She shook her head as her fiery-red curls flew, some brushing across his chin, just as she crossed both arms over her chest. “Please, don’t cry,” she spoke softly as her lisp cut in the way of pronouncing on point, “’Pa told me he’d be okay up there in the sky, so  _please_ don’t cry, Daddy.” 

Without even questioning, Owen hugged her close to his chest before he slowly began to carry her toward the girl’s bedroom, stepping into the amass of dinosaurs and princesses, the  _only_  two themes she wanted for the ‘big girl’ bedroom. Much to the toddler’s dismay, Owen lay her down in bed and pulled the sheets up and tucked them below her chin before kissing her forehead again. “I love you, my little bumble bee” he teased, holding back laughter when she corrected him, explaining that she indeed was  _not_  an ‘ _ucky bug_ ’. 

Worn down and feeling the layers of himself beginning to peel, Owen wished Bea sweet dreams once more before he caught her eyes fluttering closed. He slowly picked himself up from the edge of her bed and padded back to their bedroom, noticing the light in the hallway was turned out and, after peering down from the second-floor landing to see  _all_  the lights downstairs turned off, he smiled to himself.  _Finally_  they could get into bed. It hardly took a minute after he stepped into their bedroom to disrobe, tossing his clothes haphazardly towards the laundry hamper. Of course he knew one of his wife’s most despised pet-peeve was when he let clothes hang from the edges of the clothes bin, but he couldn’t find the energy hidden in some tiny corner of his soul to walk across the room and shove them inside. 

A second after he peeled back the gray sheets and slipped into bed Claire came around the corner, the fiery strands pulled away from her face; in front of their daughters, Claire was WonderWoman, but curled next to him she could finally let her true colors show. “Did you brush your teeth?” Owen’s face fell just as his head hit the pillow and he sighed, shrugging a moment later. “I’m too spent to care, to be rather honest.” Claire merely laughed and moved in closer; there wasn’t much that could keep her away. Not tonight, and  _not_  after she’d been next to him after a long day in the paddock. Instead, she slid a leg between his as her arm looped around his waist to aid in pulling him closer, dropping her lips to his neck. She knew it would hit -- again -- sooner or later, and for what is was worth, she’d be there for him. 

“You know what I never want to have to worry about?” His thoughts led him away to think about a day when he and Claire would both be gone, leaving their daughters to depend on each other. He could only hope it wouldn’t be for many years, but no one  _really_  knew what the future held, and it burying their parents wasn't something Owen wanted his daughter to have to deal with. He expressed the pain to his wife, shaking his head when she tried to calm him fears, telling him that it was the death of his father that was snaking its way into his thoughts, forcing him to reconsider their future. Claire snaked her hand to the back of his neck and held him close, breathing softly against his collar bone as she peppered kisses along his skin. She had one simple request, one that Claire so wanted him to promise to. When his eyebrows rose at her prompt, he smirked until she smacked his arm. “Stay  _here_  with me, Owen. Right here.” 

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @the-clawen-pamphlet, @cometothedarkside-x, @wonderrbat, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @senatorrorgana, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all--the--dancers, @batmansgirlwonder, @dealingdreams, @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


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